Men in war
by Vivien99
Summary: The musketeers are send to war and each one has his own fights to win beside the battlefield. A story how our favorite men deal with the burdens of war.
1. Chapter 1

"ATTACK!" Athos voice echoes over the battlefield, men start to run – swords and guns drawn. The Captain is in the first row, leading his men into the battle, into death. He never asked for being a Captain, for fighting at the front but this is just how life goes. Athos tries to shove away the memories of the last fights, about all the soldiers that had died under his command. He knows it's not his fault, that's just how war goes. Still, he feels guilty. The weight of many deaths laying on his shoulders. He is their captain, he is the one in command and the one responsible for them.

Athos fights his way through the opponents rows, taking more lifes than he can count. His eyes flicker over to d'Artagnan and Porthos very now and then, making sure at least these two will make it. He nearly drowns in guilt over the deaths of his soldiers, but he would surely die if one of his brothers would die by his side.

The battle is over too quick. Athos had no other choice than to order his men back to their camp, as the Spanish were outnumbering them. He is the last one on the battlefield. The last one breathing. The soldiers are already back in camp, letting their wounds being treated and resting as long as they can. The next fight will come and it won't be long till then. The Captain looks over the fallen ones. The bodies of Spanish and France mixed, only the color of their blood strained clothes is separating them somehow. But they all have something in common. They all died in a fight for more powerful men, to save their people and families. They all died at the same place. Athos kneels down to one of his fallen recruits. Thomas, he was at the musketeers regiment just for a few weeks as they were ordered to the front. He was a good boy, Athos remembers. Always smiling, a bit clumsy sometimes. He still lived with his mother, who was very ill. She would be alone now.

Athos closes the eyes of the fallen musketeer, feeling weak now as the adrenaline has left his veins. He stands up again, taking one last look over the fallen ones before returning to the camp. Thirty-four more souls that would be following him for a long time.

D'artagnan stares at the fire, as the young recruits beside him talk about the battle. "Thomas didn't come back," one of them says, his voice sick of sorrow. "He was shot right beside me," another one – Phillipe, if d'Artagnan remembers correctly – states.

The Gascon looks up from the flames to the faces of the recruits. They are not much younger than him, but he feels as if they were just children. None of them was long with the musketeers before war started. None of them has enough experience to go to war. None of them is ready to die. D'Artagnan isn't either. "He didn't die in vain. He died to save France, Paris, his family and us. He gave his life to save ours – always keep that in mind. Thomas died in a honorable way. I know that doesn't brings him back to life, but it can ease your grief. Think about the people he had saved, not about his loss."

D'Artagnan knows that the young soldiers would need time to understand this. They never experienced dead like this before. Still, he hopes that his words can bring some comfort to them. The Gascon stands up, clapping his hand and ripping the recruits out of their thoughts. "Come with me. We will tend to the horses and then build up some more tents. It's freezing cold tonight, no one should have to sleep outside."

They shouldn't be alone with their thoughts and grief, it would slowly tear them apart. No they need distraction and work was the best thing to do. D'Artagnan knows himself. After the death of his father, the work of the musketeers was what had saved him from drowning in sorrow and fury – and of curse his brothers took a great part in this too. He was sure that the young recruits would be there for each other, he already sees a bond forming a strong as the one from the inseparables. Hopefully death and war wouldn't separate them.

As the horses are fed and watered, the tents are build and fires lightened, the sun has already set. D'Artagnan is on his way to his friends, as a hand on his shoulder stops him. "D'Artagnan?" Philippe looks at the older soldier with big eyes, pain but also hope sparkle in them. "Thank you. For today. It's… We have never lived through something as cruel as this and we… we sometimes feel a bit lost between all this experienced soldiers and grown men, who are so desperate to fight and so fearless. Thank you for trying to comfort us." A small smile lies on the boys lips as he looks at the ground nervously.

D'Artagnans heart warm at the words. He nods slightly before turning around to go on his way again. A few feet away he looks back to Philippe one more time. "No one hear is fearless, don't ever think that."

Porthos lets out an frightening battle cry as he starts running towards the enemies, sword raised up high and desperation written on his face. One man after another dies by his sword, gun or hand. He makes his ways through the field, leaving a trail of bodies behind. No one who dares to hurt one of his companions shall live. And nearly no one has a chance to flee from Porthos enormous strength.  
He would feel bad tonight, he knows. He always did. Killing someone – even when it's at war – is never easy. He remembers every face and every scream, the blood on his clothes never leaves fully. His hands feel dirty, even when he had washed them clean. But he has no other choice and he wouldn't choose different if he had. He does this not only for his country and the king, or his honor, but to defend his brothers and Elodie. And Marie Cessette. Everytime he starts thinking that what he does is wrong, he remembers them. He remembers Athos and d'Artagnan, who always count on him when they're in need, he remembers Aramis who could be slaughtered in the medical tent, Elodie and Marie who need him back in one piece.

Porthos just digs his blade into the chest of a Spaniard as he feels a burning pain in his side. The musketeer has now time to pull his sword out, so he turns around and faces his opponent with just his dagger. His guns were spent a long time ago. He feels the warmth of the blood soaking through his shirt, as he attacks the other man. Somehow Porthos manages to bring the Spaniard down, before he collapses himself.

Between the dead ones no one seems to care for another fallen soldier. In the heat of the moment no one notices that he's still alive. He knows he has to wait till the battle ends and the medics will find him – hopefully in time. He has to get home alive.

Aramis stays at the hill nervous as he watches how Athos orders his men to go back to the camp. He feels so useless, when he has to watch his brothers fight without him. His fingers tingle with the need of holding his sword or shooting his gun. But he can't. He has already fought in many battles, but not only soldiers died. In an ambush ten medics were killed, who were on their way to the French camp. In the desperate need of field medics, Athos has talked to Aramis, who was already helping to tend to the injured ones after the fights. He isn't allowed to fight as long as they need every available medic so desperately. The risk he could get injured himself, or even die, would be too great.

So, Aramis sits at the beds of the injured soldiers, tends to their wounds, prays for them and when he has time he watches the battles. He tries to count how many men are killed or wounded, already looks for survivors between the lifeless bodies to get to their aid as fast as possible.

Something in his heart shatters as he believes to see how Porthos is collapsing to the ground. His hawk-like eyes are sure, it's his brother that had fallen. The medic has to gather all his strength to not start running to him right in the moment. Dead he wouldn't be any use to them. His heartbeat fastens until he can finally run onto the field safely.

He is careful to not step onto the bodies beneath them as he runs straight towards Porthos. His eyes haven't lied to him. The field medic speaks comforting words as he bandages the wound as fast as possible and waves to the soldiers who are carrying the stretchers. Two young men hurry up to him, lay Porthos onto the stretcher before bringing him back to the tents. Aramis wants nothing more than to run after them, but he has to tend to the other injured men also.

The marksman goes over his work as fast as possible and returns to the camp, his hands and clothes blood covered, his heart full of fear and guilt. Two men have already died as he tried to save them. He wonders how many will follow tonight.

Fourty-nine, the number of men who have died, while being in his caring hands. He steps into the tent, scared of what he will see. The three other remaining medics were already running around, shouting orders and stitching men. Aramis goes over to the place where Porthos lays, moaning in pain and clasping is hands at the blood-soaked bandage.

"I'm here, mon Ami. Everything will be just fine. You will see." Aramis removes the dirty and improved bandage, before he starts to clean the gasping wound properly. If he is true to himself, he really doesn't know if Porthos can make it. He has already lost a lot of blood, dirt in the wound could curse an infection and moreover they were running out of medical supplies. No – Aramis shakes his head. He can't think about that. Porthos will live.

The medic tends to his friends wound with a steady hand, even though the rest of his body is shaking and his heart races. As he makes the last stitch, Porthos is already unconsciousness. As much as Aramis wants to stay at his friends side now, he has to care for the others too.

Lost in screams, pain and blood Aramis doesn't notice how Athos and d'Artagnan have entered the tent. They decide to live him alone and hurry over to Porthos, who was mumbling senseless words in his sleep.

Athos feels as if there is no air left for him, something in his chest clenches painfully. Not only one more man is injured under his command, but one of his brothers. The safety of them is his responsible and he wasn't careful enough. But what could he have done different? He can't save them all, but he feels like he has to.

D'Artagnan lays a comforting hand on his brothers shoulder, as he feels how Athos tenses up. "He will be alright. It's Porthos." "That's the problem. It's Porthos!" Athos looks at the Gascon, his face emotionless but his eyes show all the pain and guilt he is in. D'Artagnan squeezes slightly, not letting go of his brother. "It's not your fault, Athos. It's just the way war goes. No man can do anything against it."

Hours later, the medics are still running through the tent to treat all the wounded soldiers, Porthos moans in pain. Sweat drips down his face and Athos notices that the man is burning up. "Aramis!" D'Artagnan looks around just to find the medic hovered above another patient, concentrated as he stitches a ugly looking wound on his neck. The Gascon decides to disturb him not, as long as Porthos isn't getting any worth. Unfortunately, the injured man starts to struggle and gets paler with every minute. As he starts to vomit, Athos turns him on his side fast, to save him from choking.

"His stitches are open!" D'Artagnan say shocked, as he lifts Porthos shirt and reveals the blooding wound. "Aramis!" Athos turns around to see his brother again deep in his work. No, this couldn't wait any longer. Porthos still seemed not fully conscious as he tried to breath – the wound making it even more difficult.

The Captain hurrys over to Aramis, as he still doesn't react. "Aram-" "What?!" The medic snaps, without looking up from his patient. "I'm busy." He explains, surely not noticing who speaks to him.

"It's Porthos, he's bleeding again." Aramis shots up right away, looking at Athos in confusion for a moment. The Captain notices the tiredness in the medics eyes and wonders when he had his last break or full night of sleep. This would need to wait. "He is feverish and vomited."

Aramis nods and goes back to stitching his patient – now a bit faster than before. As he is ready he runs over to Porthos right away. "Merde." The medics allows himself a deep breath, as he strokes through his hair – making it as bloody as his hands.

"I need to stitch him up again. But the infection has already spread. If I don't give him something against it, he will just open the stitches again when he vomits." "Then do it, hurry!" D'artagnan looks at Porthos scared, as the large man falls unconscious again. The young soldier earns a sharp look from Aramis for the command. "Don't dare to speak to me like this. I'm working as fast as I can. But… we don't have enough medicaments left. We need to reserve them for men who are much worth than Porthos. I can stitch him up again… but without something against his infection he will probably just vomit again." The Gascon feels bad immediately as he notices the desperation and weakness in the marksman's voice. But now it's Athos who hisses at the medic. "Porthos isn't sick enough?! He will die if you don't do anything!"

Aramis looks at his brothers for a few seconds in silence, his face doesn't give any information about what's going on in his head. "Leave the tent, it's already full enough," he finally mutters and turns to his injured friend. D'Artagnan has already turned around, feeling guilty, but Athos stays at his place. "I think you forgot who you Captain is. You're in no place to give me commands and I will stay here with Porthos. And I will make sure he lives. Someone has to."

D'Artagnan notices how Aramis tenses up at the last words, but the medic doesn't answer anything. He just starts stitching, but the air in the tent just seems to get even thicker as the musketeers remain in silence.

Aramis once again disinfects the wound, bandages it and wipes the sweat from Porthos' body, before he wants to head toward his next patient. Athos' hand on his arms, makes him stop in motion. "He needs medicine, you said it yourself."

The medics turns around dangerous slow, his eyes wander from the still form of his injured brother over to d'Artagnan and stop at Athos face. He feels his heart twist, but he has made his decision already. As much as it's hurts, he can't let men die for the life of one. He has to treat everyone the same and after he had thought how he would behave if there would not lie Porthos but some stranger, he had made his decision. Aramis shakes his head. "His chances of surviving without medicine are high enough… I need it for others."

"Don't lie to me, Aramis! We both know how bad injured Porthos is and that he is too weak to survive this infection! You kill him if you don't give him anything!"

"Athos," D'Artagnan reaches for his Captain, but his hand is slapped away. The Gascon can understand Athos grief, but still it's wrong to let it out on Aramis. D'Artagnan is sure the medic does everything in his power to make Porthos survive, but even Aramis ability has it's ends.

"I'm your Captain and I want you to give him the medicine, that's a command!"

Aramis falls silent once again, anger sparkles up in his eyes. It was already hard enough to make this decision, he doesn't need Athos to question it. And as much as he wants to follow the order, he can't.

"Then you will have to court-martial me, _Captain_. I won't follow your order and no other medic here will do it either."

Athos glares at Aramis with fury. His brother knows that he would never court-martial him. But how could he let Porthos die? Aramis just needs to save him from the death Athos commanded him to.

D'Artagnan follows the Captain out of the tent. "He can't let him die! He can't!" Athos lets out a frustrated scream, before his sits down by the fire. The Gascon takes the place right beside him. Even though Athos won't talk anymore about what's going on in his mind, d'Artagnan knows that he needs someone with him in these times. The young musketeers can imagine how hard it has to be a Captain, while war kills your men merciless. He knows that even a Captain is powerless in war. When the king says _fight_ , they all will fight. And when he says _die,_ they will. 'Cause they're soldiers. Then the Captain is there to take the responsibility for the deaths. He is the one who informs the families and makes sure everyone is properly buried.

Aramis feels how strength leaves his body as he watches his friends leave. He wishes for nothing more than to help Porthos properly, but he can't just medicine out of thin air. He feels how his body longs for rest, just a few hours of sleep, a bit of water and bread. But he has to deny it, as pained screams still fill the thick air of the tent. It will be another restless night for the four medics.

Aramis looks after Porthos every second he can. The colossus seems to get weaker with every hour that pass, his skin gets hotter and paler. "I'm sorry I can't help you, mon Ami. I fear you'll have to fight this fight alone. But you're strong, aren't you?"

…

The soldiers already had breakfast, as d'Artagnan and Athos visit their injured brother again. They're surprised to see four full plates on the table by the door, one slice of bread is half eaten, the rest of the food untouched. The water skins that were brought to the tents in the night, were nearly full as well. Three beds are covered with blankets, hiding lifeless bodies beneath them. Athos starts to search for Porthos in panic but is relieved as he finds him within seconds. He seems to be awake.

"How are you?" D'Artagnan takes Porthos hand, noticing how hot it still is. The injured musketeers smiles slightly. "Have been better. I'm making Aramis a lot of work. Have opened my stitches two times this night."

"You're making me not any kind of work," Aramis cleans his hand in a towel as he walks over to his brothers, his eyes avoiding Athos masterly. "Moreover I love seeing you squirm and curse just because of a small needle." The cheeky smile he places on his lips isn't more than a mask. Porthos, in his weakened state, is the only one who doesn't look behind it and doesn't see the exhausted face behind it.

Athos thinks about apologizing, but decides that this would need to wait. There were men dying, there is no time for personal conflicts now. "I need your report."

Aramis nods slightly. He looks around if he has to help anyone, but it seems calm for the moment so he heads over to the table by the door. A sigh of relief leaves his lips, as he finally sits down and gives his legs some rest. "When have you all had a proper rest?" Athos asks as he takes the chair on the opposite side of the table.

"We're fine," Aramis shrugs off. He takes a few sips from a water skin. Once again he looks around the tent, fearing anything could happen to his patients. "Report," he remembers himself. "Three died this night. Dubois, Durand and Simon. Good men. Uhm…" Aramis thinks about what else he has to report, still eying his patients. "Eight still critically. Robert, Petit, Mercier, Girard, Morel, Roux, Vincent and Porthos." He doesn't even flinch as he goes through the list of names, as if Porthos is just another name on it. He needs to stay professional. But Athos gulps, his eyes wandering over to Porthos who is talking with d'Artagnan at the moment.

"Five can back to light duty, today. Four others can be send home, as they won't be able to fight anymore." Athos snaps from his thoughts, as Aramis voice reminds him of the situation. "What happened to them?" The captain asks curious, as he couldn't visit the wounded as much as he wanted in the past weeks.

"Amputated legs, hands… one lost the ability to walk and poor Fabre isn't himself anymore." The medics gaze stops at the bed with so called man in it. "He will need help… with everything. Has even forgotten how to eat, after the blow to his head."

Athos sighs as he stands up. All these innocent men… "You all should rest. I will send some men who can look after the patients for you." Aramis nods slightly. He won't be able to rest properly but is thankful that Athos gives them the chance at least.

"Before you leave," Aramis lifts from his chair, "we need new medical supplies. Fast. We are useless without them. Not only medicine is rare, but also bandages and alcohol is going out."

"I will send letters to Paris. We will have new supplies in a few days."

 _I fear, they won't make it through a few days, mon Ami._


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you for your reviews, looking forward to more!  
Probably this is the chapter before the last one. Enjoy as long as you can.**

D'Artagnan raises from his chair beside Porthos' bed, on which he spend most of his time of the last two days. Between watching over his injured brother and sleeping a few short hours every night, he also took over some of Athos' tasks, since the Captain seemed to be overwhelmed with the weight of them. Of course Athos would never admit it, but the Gascon has noticed how the swordsman grieved, turning to the bottle more often again. D'Artagnan walks out of the tent, after looking one more time to Porthos and Aramis. The medic hasn't slept much the past days, dark circles under his eyes are just one sign of his exhaustion. Even after many requests from his brothers, he denies to rest properly while soldiers die under his responsibility. D'Artagnan sighs as he feels the sun brush over his face, his eyes wandering over the camp.

The soldiers are already preparing for another battle, which will start this afternoon, he guesses. Athos hasn't left his tent since yesterday, making preparations, he says. But d'Artagnan knows better. The Captain may does makes plans for the upcoming fight, but most of the time he probably just drowns his fears and guilt in wine. After checking over the young recruits, making sure they are as good prepared for the battle as possible, the Gascon makes his way over to the Captain's tent. It's as big as the other ones, despite that Athos doesn't need to share it with three more men. Two guards are supposed to be at the entrance, but Athos has denied this kind of service since the beginning. So there's no one that stops d'Artagnan from entering.

A few candles wrap the place into a warm light, coursing small shadows to dance on the beige walls of the tent. A mess of sheets and a pillow lies on the bed by the right, books and letters spread upon them. The boy with Athos' belongings is wide open, allowing a glance over the few clothes and bottles in it. The desk on the left is covered with maps and various papers. A glass of wine stands dangerous near by the edge, the elbow of the Captain beside it. Athos has his head leaned on his left hand, looking at the map in front of him. If he have noticed the man who has entered his tent, he doesn't give him any notice as his thoughts run about the upcoming battle. He can't lose any more men, send them in their deaths. He needs to save them.

"We're almost done with the preparations," d'Artagnan says, as he walks over to the table, taking a seat in the chair on the opposite of Athos. The Gascon takes a look over the map as well, noticing the blue and red dots on them. There are much more red ones than blue ones, so he guesses blue stands for the French regiment. "Do we even have a chance?" He asks bluntly. Why should he beat around the bush, when they have not much time left? It's the first time Athos looks up from his work, his eyes seem empty as he takes in the boy's features. He seems as exhausted as every other soldier, short periods of sleep, filled with nightmares, are having their take on the Gascon too. Athos has noticed how the boy has taken over some of his work, which he just wasn't able to do anymore. He has watched d'Artagnan how he talked to the recruits, how he showed them some tricks and how he sat at Porthos' bed. He heard him talk to Aramis, pleading him to take a rest – unsuccessful.  
Athos is glad to have him by his side, as he feels at least some weight being lifted from his shoulders.

Just a few years ago, before the war started, he would have denied the boy the answer. He would have tried to protect him from the cruelty this world brings to every man, but now – after three years fighting in a hopeless battle – d'Artagnan has already experienced it. He is old and mature enough to understand what's going on and to be able to handle it – even though he is still a young reckless boy in the eyes of Athos. The Captain sighs, taking a sip from his wine. "I don't see a fight how we could win this. We're outnumbered and are running out of gunpowder and men as well."

D'Artagnan takes the glass out of the Captain's hand, gulping down the content by himself. He shows a weak smile, as Athos lifts his eyebrows at him. Then he looks back at the map, sighing. "I fear I can't help you much with this, mon ami. I wouldn't do it much different than you. Maybe place a few marksmen there," d'Artagnan points at a hill beside the battlefield, then shrugs, "But the rest seems as good as it could be." Athos analyses what the Gascon has said, before drawing the marksmen where he had suggested. "We have not many good marksmen left," he adds.

"But we still have the best one. He's tending to the wounded right now." D'Artagnan pours some more wine in his glass, watching his friend waiting. "We need Aramis to care for the injured men. I fear it will take much longer for other medics to arrive than I've hoped."

"Maybe he can take a break from nursing for a few hours? Without the medical supplies he can't do much anyway." Another problem Athos still has to deal with. He had send letters two days ago, it will take at least three more till the supplies arrive. Too many days, how one of the physicians has already stated. Many soldiers will die because of this. Athos has already prepared for this, for the many letters he has to send to their families. What he even more fears is to have to write one to Elodie. If Porthos dies, he doesn't know how or if he could handle this. It would probably be his death too.

"I will think about this. Thank you for help, d'Artagnan." The Captain stands up and leaves the tent. It's time for Aramis' report and to take a look at their injured brother. As Athos enters the infirmary the gross scent of blood mixed with vomit and sweat hits him. The sound of groaning, mumbling and screaming comes to his mind as he walks along the beds, taking a look at each soldier. He notices that some wounds are bandaged with towels or pieces of clothes instead of proper dressings. His heart stops, as a hand reaches for his. Bissette, a very experienced musketeer, who was a soldier before Athos could have held a sword, looks up to him with weary eyes. "Captain," his voice is rough and nothing more than a whisper, "Release me, please." Athos eyes wander over the man, taking in the sight of the purple bruises on his torso. Internal bleedings. "Kill me," Bissette says, now more firmly as the Captain didn't seem to react to his pleads. "Release me from the pain." Athos opens his mouth to say something soothing, but no words come out of his dry throat. He suddenly feels a presence beside him, sees a bloodied hand laying down on Bissettes cheek. "Rest brother, you will feel a lot better soon." Aramis voice is soft and soothing, but Athos hears the trembling in it. The medic keeps on talking calmly until Bessette falls asleep. The marksman doesn't take his hand from the cheek, watching the sleeping men with sad eyes. "He's dying. We can't do anything for him. He's in so much pain – pleading us to release him every now and then. I wish I could give him something to ease the pain, to make him sleep until… until he leaves. But-" Aramis takes in a deep breath, now turning to his Captain. "When do the medical supplies arrive?"

"In three days, if we're lucky." Athos looks around the tent, not daring to look in the medics face. He can't endure to see the disappointment, the exhaustion, the sadness or the guilt in his brothers eyes. Aramis doesn't say anything and walks over to Porthos bed, Athos following him slowly. "How is he?" He asks, scared of the answer he might could get. The tension between him and Aramis is still tensed, it's much worse for Athos since the marksman doesn't show his fury, but stays calm and professional. It feels as if he's talking to some stranger, but his brother is standing in front of him. "He's not worse than yesterday, but not getting better either. He's still feverish, unconscious or asleep most of the time. We got some water in him this morning, but I fear he will lose this fight if we can't get him to eat soon. He needs to be strong to live through the infection, without food and with just a little bit of water – and without medicine – he…" Aramis pushes his hair out of his face, as it clings to his sweaty brow. "His chances to survive are low. Maybe, if we get him through the next days until the supplies arrive, just maybe we will get him back. I still have some hope left, since he wakes up every now and then. It's only for short periods of time, but it's the best we can get. He isn't confused in this times, that's a good sign."

Athos nods, as he takes in the information. If Aramis still dares to hope, he does to. Rather said, he will cling to this hope as if it's the only thing keeping him and Porthos alive. "And what's about the others? Will some make it?"

The medic takes a towel to clean his hands, but it seems a hopeless work since there will be new blood on his hands soon anyway. "three have only minor injuries, they will be back to duty in no time. The others… we have to wait. Some aren't injured too bad, but without the supplies we can't treat their wounds properly. It will take some time."

"Any new deaths?"

"Clotier has lost his fight last night. Bessette will follow soon."

Aramis raises an eyebrow, as Athos just stands there and looks over the injured soldiers for a few minutes, lost in his thoughts. The last days he has left right after the reports. "Is there anything else?"

"Indeed." Athos turns to the medic once again. "d'Artagnan made a suggestion and I think it's a good one. And as much as I think we need you hear, as much we need you today, fighting." Aramis eyes his Captain with a mix of confusion and uncertainty. "We're outnumbered. But with a few good marksmen, placed at the hill, we could stand a chance." Athos explains, his heart beating fast as he waits for his brothers reaction. Relief fills his chest, as the medic nods after what seemed years. "I understand." Aramis gaze wanders over the beds once more, still not sure if it's a good idea to leave them. But there are three other medics, he reminds himself. "If you think we could win and some of us could survive because of it, I will do it. That's why I'm here in the first place, right?" Aramis forces himself to a small laugh, that shows nothing of the happiness and lightness he once had.

"Eat and rest, it won't be long till it starts."

Athos turns around, but this time he doesn't leave the tent but sits down beside Porthos. Out of the corner of his eyes he sees how Aramis gets back to work, tending to one of the men instead of resting. He should have known that.

Athos sighs, running a hand through the dark curls of his friend. "We will have to leave you for a few hours, mon Ami. But don't fear we will come back for you. We won't leave you alone." Athos closes his eyes, as fear overcomes him. Fear to not only lose Porthos, but d'Artagnan and Aramis too. And for the first time in years he also fears for his own life. Not because he fears death – he doesn't – but because he fears would leave Porthos, and the man would have to suffer alone. No, he has to come back for his brothers sake. "I wish you could be at our side, brother. We need you more than ever. I need you." And as if he had heard him, Porthos' eyes flutter open. "I'm not gone, stop acting like I'm already dead," he mutters, a weak smile on his lips. Athos laughs slightly as he holds a waterskin to his lips. Porthos gulps the water down thankfully, before resting his head back in the pillow.

"What's your strategy for today?" The injured man asks and Athos shakes his head at him. He is suffering from an infection, unconscious for most of the time, and still Porthos cares for their strategy. Maybe he isn't as bad as he has feared. Athos starts to explain his plans, telling from d'Artagnans idea too, as the talking seems to keep Porthos awake. "Why don't you surround them?" Porthos closes his eyes in exhaustion. Athos frowns, thinking about the idea. But before he can ask for details, Porthos is already asleep again.

 _Surrounding them…._

Afternoon

Aramis lays down in the grass, careful not to make any sounds that could betray him. He lays the six weapons down beside him, checking if they're loaded for the third time. "Are you okay?" He looks at the young boy beside him with a reassuring smile. Joubert is one of the newest recruits, he was wounded in one of the first battles and limped since them. He got out of the infirmary just a week ago and wasn't fit to fight. But he could reload his weapons, Joubert exclaimed after Athos had announced his plan. Every man who wasn't in desperate need of staying in bed was helping in this battle. Most of them were at the side of a marksman just as Joubert, reloading the guns.

Aramis glances down the hill to the Spanish army. The soldiers seem healthy and fit, but most important they were at least three times as many as the French. Then, Aramis eyes wander over to the hill on the other side, recognizing the weapons on top of it. As he looks further over the hills and between the trees, which surround the battlefield, he notices more and more soldiers and marksman, hiding and preparing for the fight. A deathly silence lays on the field, not even birds dare to disturb it. Aramis takes in a deep breath to slow his heartbeat as he aims, waiting for the command that would start the fight.

Endless minutes are going by, Joubert beginning to shake nervously beside Aramis. "Calm down, boy. Just stay down and no one will even see you. I will make sure nothing's going to happen to you," the marksman mutters, never looking away from his target, finger already on the trigger. Then, finally, the sound of Athos voice disturbs the silence. "NOW!"

Aramis shoots immediately, taking down the leader of the Spanish troop. More shoots follow, Spanish soldiers falling. Aramis takes down five more men, passing his weapons over to Joubert to reload. Just then, as already thirty men are dead, Athos comes out of the woods, running and his sword drawn. His men are following him, coming from all sides. The Spanish are took in surprise, as they don't know where to start fighting as the French are surrounding them. The marksmen made sure to take out all men in command, so the soldiers were left without any instructions. Some more experienced soldiers take over the rolls of a Captain, shouting orders. The Spaniards seem to regain some focus as the French arrive. A deathly fight starts, men falling. Now, with his countrymen between, it got harder for Aramis to shoot. He takes more time to aim, sometimes has to wait for a musketeer to walk away, until he can finally shoot.

"Busca a los tiradores!" One of the Spanish soldiers shouts, as more and more men of him die because of the French marksmen. "Reload, fast!" Aramis throws his pistol to Joubert, looking over the field to make out the soldiers who are searching for him and the other marksmen. He takes out one, as he arrives at the ground of the hill but also reveals his position to other Spaniards.

Aramis forces himself to stay calm, as one of the soldiers points in his direction. The man to the ground lifeless a second later. Aramis hits another few men, but soon Joubert can't reload fast enough. The marksman curses as six soldiers are running up the hill. "We don't have any bullets left," Joubert calls out, as he hands the last three guns over to Aramis.

"Run Joubert, run through the woods and back to the camp." As the boy wants to start to argue, Aramis pushes him slightly. "Run, that's an order." Aramis makes sure the boy starts to run, before killing two more soldiers. He attaches the last musket to his belt, before standing up and drawing his sword. "Ven aquì y pruebalo." He mutters in spanish, adrenaline pumping through his veins.

The first man approaches him, involving Aramis into a long and exhausting fight. Soon the second Spaniard comes to the aid of his countryman, attaching the marksman in sync. Aramis, lost in his own battle for survival, doesn't notice the third man running after Joubert. Taking his chance, Aramis strikes down one of his opponent with a swift motion. As the fourth Spaniard climbs the top of the hill, Aramis tosses his dagger to the side, shooting him before returning to fight the last soldier.

D'Artagnan leads his own group of men, attaching the Spanish from the backside. They fight their way through the opponents rows fast at the beginning, as the soldiers were still confused. With the time it got harder, as the marksmen couldn't kill as fast as before. At least it was a fair fight by now, the French nearly as many men as the Spanish. While fighting of his opponents he has a steady look for his men, making sure they're fine. As he notices one of the musketeers is defending himself against three Spaniards, d'Artagnan hurries to his aid, stabbing one of the attackers in the back.

So focused on trying to save the man he is responsible for, he doesn't notice the Spaniard behind him coming closer.

With the last rays of sun, the last men die. It's over, Athos thinks. It's finally over. He takes a look over the battlefield, his sword dripping with blood. He recognizes some of his men between the Spanish corpses, but they're few. Most of his soldiers have survived. This counts as a win.

As Athos walks through the lifeless bodies, searching for survivors, he notices some stumble up to him. Not just someone. "D'Artagnan!" The Captain closes the gap between them in seconds, catching the boy just before he hits the ground. Athos lays him down carefully, placing his head in his lap. Having experienced situations like this many times, doesn't ease the panic rising up in him as he searches the Gascon for the wound, finally finding it on his left side. An ugly looking wound gapes open, letting the blood leave the boys body way to fast. Athos looks around, waving to two musketeers. "He lives! Come help me!" Despite the fear in him, Athos remains calm to the outside, never letting the mask of the Captain fade. With the help of the two musketeers they carry d'Artagnan towards the camp and lay him down in one of the beds, so a medic can treat his wound.

"It's a nasty wound," the physician exclaims, while cutting open the doublet to reveal the deep cut. After examining it for a while, he cleans it. "But he'll live."  
Athos sighs I relief, still the tightness in his chest won't leave. He takes the hand of Gascon, squeezing it gently. The Captain stays at the bed until the physician has stitched and bandaged the wound with a towel, as there aren't any more dressings left. And as much Athos wants to keep by d'Artagnans side he has to leave him for a while, but the Gascon would understand. He still has other men to care for, too. With a heavy heart Athos leaves the lent, eyeing the camp carefully. Most of the soldiers are already back, sitting around fires or sleeping. Some are carrying the fallen ones to the camp. Athos decided to go back to the field one more time, to make sure everything is fine and to meet with Aramis who is probably tending to the wounded there.

Athos is just about to enter the field, as he notices two bodies at the bottom of a hill. The hill Aramis was stationed at. As he comes closer, the swordsman notices how one body lies in the arms of the other one. He recognizes Aramis familiar statue, holding a young boy – Joubert he guesses. The poor boys head is a bloody mess, not much left of it though. "Aramis?" Athos whispers, careful to not startle his friend. The medic lifts his slowly, looking at his captain with tears filled eyes. "I said I would protect him, no harm would come to him. I promised him." The crack of his voice at the end broke Athos' heart, as he sat by the side of his brother. "It's not your fault, 'Mis."

Aramis shakes his head, before looking back to the lifeless body in his arms. "Fifty-four." Athos frowns, "What does that mean?"

"Fifty-Four men that died because of me. Because I wasn't good enough." Another heartbreaking sob leaves the marksmans body, as he presses Joubert closer to his chest.

"Come, we will get him back to the camp and you too. We will talk about it there, okay?" Athos speaks soothing, slowly taking Joubert out of his brothers arms. Just now he notices the blood that's covering Aramis clothes'. If it's his, Jouberts or from his opponents he can't tell. He will make sure Aramis is looked over once back in the camp. The medic stands up slowly, following Athos with unsteady legs. "Before we get there… D'Artagnan is hurt." Shock filled Aramis eyes, but before he could say anything, Athos added:" But he will be fine. He will live." It's surely not enough to sooth the medic, but enough to make him not panic.

After brining Joubert to the other fallen soldiers, they make their way over to the medical tent.

The battle may was a win for France, but just another defeat for _les inseperables_.

 **Tbc.**


	3. It's over

Aramis seems to fall unconscious the moment he sees d'Artagnan. The boy sleeps peacefully, but his skin is pale after the loss of blood. He could be dead and wouldn't look any different. Aramis had already talked to one of the medics, and he knows that he will make it. It isn't a deadly wound, still it just feels too much to the Gascon lying in the bed right beside Porthos injured. Porthos is still feverish, the infection shows no signs of easing. The image of d'Artagnan blurs into Jouberts lifeless body in front of the medics eyes. "Please, no." Aramis sits down in the chair by the bed, feeling as any strength has left him. He takes the Gascons hand in his own, needing to feel the warmth of the skin and the regular heartbeat to make sure he is still alive. His eyes focus on the boys chest, watching how it falls and raises regularly. Aramis doesn't dare to look away for a moment or ease his hold on the hand, as he fears the boy would draw his last breath just in this moment. It's ridiculous, he thinks. Aramis knows that the boy won't die now or any time soon, he knows he will heal and be back to health fast. D'Artagnan is a strong man and not deathly wounded, still the fear won't leave Aramis.

It's the same fear that follows him since Porthos lies in his bed. But this fear is real. It's still not sure if his brother will make it, if he will ever recover. He fights hard, but even a man as strong as Porthos can't fight death forever. Without any medicine… Aramis doesn't dare to end this thought, as even thinking it could make it real. No. Porthos will live just as much as d'Artagnan. No one will die. He won't let that happen. Aramis won't allow any more deaths of soldiers. No man will die in this tent, he promises not only to himself, but to god too. Aramis snaps out of his dark thoughts and forces himself to let go of the boys hand. He has some work to do.

Athos watches with concern as the medic throws himself into work again. He should rest, he should recover. Aramis hasn't let anyone to look over him after the fight. It concerns the Captain as he doesn't know how bad or if the marksman is injured. There is blood all over him. His once white shirt is nothing more than a bloodied mess, but from whom this blood is no one can tell.

And as much as Athos wants to command the man to rest, he doesn't do it. He knows he won't follow the command anyway. Moreover Athos knows how much the medic is needed now. They may have won the fight, still many men are wounded badly. There are always losses in war, even if you win.

Athos glances over his wounded brothers one more time, before returning to his tent. He has some letters to write.

 _Three days later…_

D'Artagnan woke up in the early morning hours. He still is very weak, but conscious. Aramis got some water and broth into him and changed the dressings – glad to see that the stitches are healing well.  
They boys first question was if Porthos was fine. Aramis didn't answer, just shook his head. He couldn't tell the boy that the fever had increased and that the man wasn't waking up anymore. He just said, that Porthos was still alive, as d'Artagnan got scared. Athos had come to the tent as soon he heard from the Gascons recovery. He is just about to force some more water in the boy, as a soldier enters the tent. "Captain? We need you outside." Without further explanations the soldier leaves. Athos frowns and follows him with curiosity.

"What's it?" He asks, as the soldier leads him through the camp. "There are wagons arriving. Too many to just bring the medical supplies, you had asked for. They're still a few miles away, but we don't know if they could be dangerous. They don't wear any flags."

"I want to see them by myself. Show me." Athos voice doesn't leave any choice to argue and soon the Captain is already mounted up. The soldier rides in the front, leading the way through the woods. On a hill he comes to a stop. "There." He points to a convoy of at least twenty wagons, making their way through the forest. Athos eyes them suspicious. Eyes wandering over the soldiers on the horses, until they stop on one explicit man. He is dressed in simple clothes, so it's only normal that a common soldier won't recognize him. But Athos would notice him blindly out of a hundred men. Joy and uncertainty mix in his chest, as the visit of the Minister of France can only mean something of great importance. Bad or good will show. Athos rides down the hill. "Minister Treville!" He shouts, as the soldiers notice him and aim their weapons. The Minister orders them to lower them, as he recognizes the familiar voice. "Athos," the Minister smiles as he sees the Captain coming up to him.

"What's so important that you visit us yourself, Minister?" Athos asks bluntly. "You never was a man for small talk, Athos." The Minister laughs. "It seems the letters haven't arrived yet." "What letters?" Athos frowns, trying to figure out what's going on. "The war is over, Athos. It's finally over. We will get you home, and we brought enough food and medical supplies for all of you." 

"It's over." Athos repeats in disbelief. After all these years, after all this time of fear and cruelty it's finally over. From one day to another it just stops.

The message spreads through the camp fast. The soldiers are getting the medical supplies into the infirmary as fast as possible, joy overwhelming as they spread the words of the Captain. "We're going home!" A soldier tells Aramis as he gives them the much needed supplies, leaving the medic stunned. Aramis takes a look over the men in the beds. Some ready to be back on duty soon, smiling and laughing. Some barely conscious, still the relief is obvious on their faces. Others, as Porthos, not even noticing. "When?" Aramis turns to the soldier, just before he leaves the tent. "The Minister said we will leave as soon as possible. He hopes that we can mount up tomorrow morning."

Aramis ignores the information that Treville has come too for the moment. He has more important things to think off. Just a few of the injured men are able to endure the long journey back to Paris. Even when transported in a wagon, it will be a debilitating and hard way home for the sick and wounded men. As comfortable it sounds, being transported in a wagon isn't simply bearable when in pain. The wagons shake and bounce continuous, as the roads are uneven and rough. The medic fears, that if they have to head to Paris tomorrow morning, only half of the injured ones will arrive alive. Porthos won't arrive alive.

Aramis thoughts stumble about the upcoming journey the whole time he's treating to the wounded. He's giving them the much needed medicine, changes their dressings and rubs slaves on the wounds. He feeds them and gives them water, he talks to each one about that they would be home soon, hoping that this would give them some sort of comfort and strength.

"Constance," d'Artagnan smiles. "I will see Constance!" Aramis smiles slightly, nodding. "Yeah, and she will tell you how stupid you are to get injured in your last fight. And she will probably slap all of us for letting it happen." The Gascon laughs, knowing that the marksman is right. "She can slap me how much she wants, as long as she is with me." "She surely won't leave you anytime soon," Aramis assures before getting up. "I have to talk to the Captain and Treville, but I will be back soon."

D'Artagnan nods and lays his head down on the pillow with a big smile. He can already feel Constances arms around him.

Aramis is surprised to see guards in front of the Captains tent, until he remembers that the Minister of France is of course guarded. "I need to speak to Treville and Athos," he exclaims. One guard takes a short glance into the tent, before he nods and lets him in.

Two pairs of eyes look at the medic surprised, before a big smile spreads across Trevilles face. He raises from the chair and heads over the musketeer, hugging him tightly. "Aramis, it's good to see you." Aramis returns the hug, but doesn't return the smile. He has no time for small talk and long greetings. "I have to talk to both of you." Athos now heads over to them too, eyeing the medic questioning. "I heard you plan to leave tomorrow morning." Aramis earns confirming nods and questioning looks. "I will have to inform you that if you insist on such an early leave men will die. They're not ready to travel such a long way."

"What do you suggest when we can leave?" Treville asks, thinking about their possibilities. "To make sure everyone is fine I would have said in two weeks. But I know that the soldiers want to get home soon and that the Musketeers regiment is needed in Paris. If you give me five days I could make sure that everyone has a fair chance to survive the journey to Paris, where proper physicians can tend to them. But this will still be a hard journey for them. Another possibility would be that the healthy soldiers leave tomorrow and I will stay with the injured men until they're healthy enough to travel."

Athos shakes his head. "We won't leave you here alone. I guess everyone will be okay, if we wait five days. What do you think, Minister?" Treville nods in agreement. "We leave in five days then, by sunrise. And you wash yourself until then." He looks at Aramis, as he hadn't washed himself after that last battle. "I will do it when as soon as I find the time." Without giving the Minister to answer something, Aramis leaves o get to the wounded again.

Athos sighs, sitting down again. "He is forgetting to care for himself in order to save these men." Treville nods, knowing this character trait of Aramis just too well. "And you try to forget with some cheap wine?" He points at the empty bottles, lying on the floor, bed and table. Athos shrugs. "Times not easy for any of us."

Sighing, the Captain leans back in his chair, as he knows too well what Athos went through the last years. "It's not your fault. Nothing that happened is your fault, Athos. No one who had died, died because of you. You did what you had to do and you did it better than I could have. The peace that will come is just as much your work as ours." The Captain huffs but doesn't give any more signs of his emotions to Treville. No words could take away the guilt that follows him through every day. No words could bring back the poor souls he had lead into their deaths. He knows he had no choice, still he was the one responsible for them. They died under his command, so they died because of him.

 _Two days until departure…_

Even though Aramis had forbidden it, d'Artagnan was walking through the camp slowly. He breaths in the clear air, which doesn't smell like blood and sweat as in the tent. He takes in the sight of the soldiers preparing their departure, seeing joy where grief had been just a few days ago. The hope and joy makes him feel stronger than he is right now. The pain in his side is forgotten when he thinks about seeing Constance. It's finally over. The Gascon comes to a stop, as he arrives at the tents of the recruits. He thinks back to the first days, how scared they were, how unexperienced. They were just as young as then, but now he is sure they will be great soldiers and musketeers. They survived something just the best and luckiest can survive and will find their ways through life now alone. Proud fills his chest as he hears them talk about their fallen brothers – not with grief but with love. They remember how good these men were, tell funny and heroic stories instead of crying. He has taught them well.

In the same moment as d'artagnan watches the recruits, Athos makes sure all preparations are made and Aramis gives medicine to a injured man, Porthos still fights for his life. The medicine had eased his fever, which was a very good sign, Aramis had said. But the infection hasn't left his body by now, still taking his strength. There is no way to get some food into him, which weakens him more with every day passing. Porthos is horrifying skinny by now, his skin far too pale. Sometimes his heartbeat is far too slow and weak, other times the medics fear that the heat would jump out of his chest any moment. Sometimes his skin is hot as fire, the next moment it's cold as ice. But what remains are the dark world he is caught in. He suffers from terrible nightmares. He relives the war again and again. Sees men being slaughtered, sees his brothers die in front of his eyes. He can't save them. He tries to move but in every single one of his dreams he is forced to watch helplessly. He watches d'Artagnan being impaled by a sword, Athos getting his brain shot out of his head and watches Aramis being sliced open by a dagger. And not recognizing the soothing voices of his brothers, the calming touches, he is caught and alone in this dark and cruel world. He loses hope and doesn't know what to fight for any longer, as he watches his brothers die again and again. Why should he live when they're dead anyway?

In another of his nightmares he hears a soft voice speaking to him. He doesn't see who it belongs to, as it talks to him, as nothing but darkness surrounds him. "We're going home." The words reach him somehow. The voice seems exhausted but relieved. It's supposed to be something good to get home. But what's good about being home, when his brothers are dead? Without them every place will feel strange, will feel like hell. No, he doesn't want to get home when it's not with them.

But then, the same voice, echoes through the darkness once again. "Marie, Elodie, need you." And with that Porthos recognizes the voice. He can almost see the sad smile on Aramis' lips, as he runs his hands through his hair. The voice of an fallen angel, Porthos thinks. Of a dead angel. Then he remembers what the voice had said. Marie and Elodie. In this dark and cruel world he had nearly forgotten them. And even when his brothers won't, they will be in Paris waiting for him. They will want to see him back in one piece, he wants to be able to hug them tight. But for that he needs to leave this dark world.

Porthos gathers all the strength he has left to open his eyes, just to shut them in the same moment again, as the light burns. He tries again, this time slower and manages to keep his eyes open. His vision is blurry and as it starts to clear he recognizes the familiar faces. Aramis and d'Artagnan are smiling down to him. He notices the exhaustion in their faces, but then he sees the happiness sparkling in their faces. Why are they happy?

"Good morning, sleeping beauty." Aramis laughs slightly, so relieved to see him finally awake. D'Artagnan holds a skin full of water to his lips and Porthos drinks it thankfully. "How are you feeling?" The medic speaks again. "Fne" Porthos winces at the pain burning in his throat as he speaks, earning a sympathetic smile from his brothers. "Your neck was cut with a dagger, it missed your trachea barely. Talking and eating will probably hurt for a while, but it will get better."

Porthos nods, he remembers being stabbed on the battlefield. "'Thos?" he asks, as he can't find their Captain in the tent, concerned that he might have fallen.

"He's fine, preparing our departure. We're going home, Porthos. The war is over." D'Artagnan announces, joy sparkling in his eyes. Porthos can't help too smile at the boy, feeling the happiness jump over to him. "Home," he mumbles before closing his eyes, as they feel just too heavy to keep them open anylonger. "Yes, we're going home. You're going to see beautiful Marie-Cessette and Elodie again. Rest now brother." Aramis speaks gently, placing a blanket over Porthos.

The injured man falls asleep immediately, now dreaming from a strong woman and a beautiful little girl waiting for him in the musketeers garrison. He dreams from his brothers riding side by side through the gates, all healthy and alive. It's over.

 _Day of departure…_

Athos shouts order through the camp, as he helps to carry bags and boxes into one of the wagons. While doing that, he always has an eye on what's happening. He notices how horses are fed and saddled and how the injured men are carried on the wagons. He had forbidden d'Artagnan to help carrying the bags, as the boy was still not back to full health, so the Gascon was helping with the horses. Porthos already lays in one of the wagons, Aramis looks after him. Most of the men are now off the edge, able to survive the journey without any problems. The medics have spread on the wagons, carrying the wounded, making sure to be there when something should happen.

Just as the sun rises, the soldiers mount up. The Captain, Treville and d'Artagnan are riding in first row, as Athos couldn't make the boy travel in one of the wagons. Athos glances back, eying the exhausted but happy faces of his men. They're talking about their children, wives and homes. They're talking about a better time that will come, about peace and happiness in the streets of Paris.

The Captain hopes they are right.

D'Artagnan talks from Constance without a stop, smiling like a little boy as he thinks about this beautiful woman. He asks Treville to tell something about her, as the Minister was able to visit her a few times in the garrison. The Gascon looks forward to see her again, as it's finally over. He won't ever forget what he had seen, what he had felt and what he done, but he will overcome it with Constance and his brothers by his side.

Porthos stays conscious most of the time, even though the bouncing of thee wagons pains him. Aramis had given him something to ease the pain, so he could handle it most of the time. Porthos listens to the other men talk, as speaking still hurt. He also watches Aramis, as he leans against the wood with a sigh. He had made sure that every one was well and had had his medicine and there was nothing to do now. The first time in days, everyone was fine for a moment.

He closes his eyes, exhausting taking over him. Porthos watches how his brothers falls asleep immediately. He had noticed how exhausted the medic was, how thin he got. He had also noticed that he still wore the same dirty and blood strained clothes he wore at the last battle. Finally, Aramis seems to find some peace and rest as he sleeps at his shoulder peacefully. It's over, he can rest now and Porthos can get back to full health.

They will all be fine, 'cause it's over now.

 _But can it really be over? Can it ever leave their minds and heavy hearts? Can the weight on their shoulders ever be lifted, and the guilt on their souls forgiven? Can their sins be absoluted and their fears be gone? Will the nightmares ever stop and the memories faint? The wounds will heal, but scars will be left. They will be there forever and remind them. Remind them to the fear, the pain, the guilt, the sorrow. Remind them to the sins they have done, the murders and the losses they had. The souls of the Fallen have already left earth, but their graves will always remain. No one and nothing will ever be forgotten, if good or bad. And nothing will ever be truly over for the musketeers as memories remain._

 **Thank you for all your lovely reviews and support. Keep going!**


	4. Epilogue

_Actually I wanted to end the story with the last chapter, but thanks to "Pallysd'Artagnan" – who gave me some new ideas – here is another one!_

As the sky is turning into a darker shade of blue, the birds stop singing and silence hovers over the convoy, they come to a stop. The clearing in between the woods shall be the place to rest a few hours before starting to ride again. While some soldiers are building up the tents, others start searching for sticks to make some fires. Some are helping to get the wounded men into one of the tents. Aramis doesn't look away from his patients for a moments, as he follows them into the tent. The long journey had exhausted them all, some wounds were ripped open again thanks to the bouncing of the wagons. The medics had tended to the injuries as good as possible while riding, but they have to stitch them properly now that they have the time.

Aramis is deeply concentrated on stitching up an older companion, as Treville enters. The medic doesn't even notice that the First Minister of France has entered, as he keeps focused on the needle in his hand and the bloody flesh beneath it. So unlikely Aramis, he flinches as a hand is placed on his shoulder. Just now, he looks up and in the face of the former Captain of the musketeers. "Minister, I haven't heard you." Aramis goes back to work to make the last stitches and bandages the wound tightly.

"I know, Aramis. You were deeply concentrated." A look of concern lays on Trevilles face as he inspects one of his best men. "You still haven't changed or washed. And the dark circles under your eyes show that you haven't slept properly for a lot of time. Aramis you're fading away."

The medic looks confused, as he doesn't quite know what the Minister means. He knows his clothes are quite dirty by now, and he feels his eyes being heavy and tired every now and then, but he doesn't feel like fading away. He has some important work to do and for that washing can wait. The Minister sighs. "There's a small creek near the camp. Go and get all this blood off of you, you're scaring the men. Then let someone see to your wounds, you probably haven't tended to them since the battle."

Aramis frowns, looking at the now unconscious man in front of him. "I can't take a break now."

"Aramis you're no use for us when you're tired and exhausted. Wash, eat, sleep. That's a command." The marksman is about to argue, as Treville shots him a strict look. Defeated Aramis leaves the tent. As he makes his way over to the creek, he suddenly feels weak and exhausted. He thinks about all the things he still has to do the salves he has to make, the dressings he has to change, the leg he will have to amputate if the man doesn't get better soon. Aramis strips from his clothes, slowly walking into the water. It's cold but as it just goes to his knees, it's bearable. He takes his dirtied shirt and dips it in the wetness, before using it as a sponge rubbing all the blood from his body. Just then he notices all the smaller cuts and bruises on his torso. The medic carefully cleans them, before putting his head under the water. The coldness seems to waken his senses. He suddenly feels a slight burn on his skin where the cuts are, feels his hands tremble and legs shake. He feels the pounding in his head and his heavy lids. He puts on some clean clothes, before going back to the camp. As he walks over to the sleeping men lying by the fire, the tents built up peacefully between the trees, the image of a horrifying night comes to his mind. No, it's much warmer. Aramis shakes his head to get rid of the image, that comes to his mind every now and then. It should be long forgotten.

The medic lays down beside d'Artagnan, near by the fire. Sleep overwhelms him fast.

Athos eyes the sleeping soldiers, making sure everyone is fine. He had volunteered for first watch, as he wouldn't sleep anyways. Even if the war was over now, his mind is still on high alert. He expects an ambush or attack every second, thinking that this silence is unnatural and feeling as all of this is just a too beautiful dream, that will be broken by death and screams soon. How can something so cruel end so suddenly, how can be just over after four years? He feels an unease feeling spreading in his chest as he tries to see something in the darkness. Sometimes he thinks to have seen a man between the forest, or a musket aiming at him, but then a bird flies away or a deer runs over to his mother. There is nothing dangerous out here.

The Captain had watched how Aramis went to the creek a few minutes ago, and is relieved to see his friend coming back washed and clean. He once again notices the exhaustion on his brothers face and watches him as he lays down beside d'Artagnan. At the sight of the two men finally finding rest, a little bit of the weight on his shoulders is lifted. They would be fine.

It's in the early morning hours, where they're carrying the injured back onto the wagons. Porthos is able to walk with the help of the man by now, which shows how much better he got since the medicine had arrived. Aramis doesn't take his place beside his brother this time, he has some surgery to do, he explained to Athos earlier. Aramis kneels down on the wagon behind Porthos' with another medic. Athos notices how his friend starts praying and fears that another man has died. But then, Aramis takes his medical kit and rolls up his sleeves.

Athos turns his attention back on the road. The uneasy feeling from the night hasn't left him, but that's probably just an aftermath from the war. After four years of his mind being on alert all the time, he just can't let go of it immediately. "Athos, we're safe." The Gascon had noticed the stressed look on his Captains face already a hour again and now lays his hand on his shoulders in comfort. "Relax for just a moment." Athos nods, but his tight grip on the reigns remains just as much as the tensed look. D'Artagnan sighs and then chuckles. "You make me nervous, mon Ami. Just calm down, nothing is going happe-" A thrilling scream suddenly interrupts the Gascon. Athos has his hand already around the grip of his weapon, as another pained scream follows. Just then he notices that it comes from behind. Turning on his horse he notices how Aramis is shouting orders to another soldier on the wagon, and the other medic is desperately trying to hold a man down. Athos loosens the grip on his weapon slowly, still eyeing the woods for attackers. D'Artagnan instead can't tear his look from the scene on the wagon. He watches how Aramis wipes some sweat from his brows with a blood-strained hand, leaving a trail of the red wetness on his face. There is so much blood on his hands, d'Artagnan starts to wonder what the hell they're doing. He slows his horse in order to get a better look onto the wagon. He starts nausea rise as he watches how Aramis changes from the knife in his hands to a saw. The Gascon is by now besides Porthos' wagon and shots a shocked look over to his injured brother, who watches the surgery as well. The looks on Porthos' face remains calm, showing that he isn't new to seeing such cruel things. Growing up in the Court of Miracles made hardened him years ago. With dark eyes, which have seen almost everything in their life, he shots a sympathetic look over to the boy, who seems to be sick in any moment. Even though he wishes for nothing more than to look away, he turns his look to Aramis once again.

D'Artagnan has the urge to press his hand onto his ears, as the poor man once again screams, but he fights this urge and endures the pained screams. He watches how Aramis saws through the thighbone, until a loud _crack_ shows that it's finally through. The medic mumbles prayers once again, as he shoves the amputated limb to the side and starts to close the gaping wound one the man's waist. The Gascon notices how pale Aramis is by now, and just as he is ready with bandages, d'Artagnan sees his eyes turn upwards. "Aramis!" He rides to the wagon, where his friend fall unconscious the moment he arrives. D'Artagnan tries to ignore the crying man, who just had lost a limb, and tries not to look at the lifeless leg lying by Aramis side. He gives his reigns to a nearby soldier and jumps into the wagon.

"Hey, Aramis, wake up." He slaps his cheeks gently, relieved as the marksmans eyes finally flutter open again. Aramis gaze wanders from the Gascon over to his patient. A weak smile spreads on his lips as he sits up again. "He's still alive." D'Artagnan nods, "Yeah you did some great work before you feel unconscious." Aramis pushes some hair back and lets out a deep breath. "Sorry. I don't what happened to me." 

"You just sawed of a leg from a living body, I would fall unconscious too. But you saved him. Suddenly Aramis eyes widen in shock as he clenches to d'Artagnans arm. "Don't make me to do this ever again. I can't do this another time." The Gascon wraps his arms around the medic. "It's over, you won't have to do this ever again." D'Artagnan hopes deeply that his words are true. He can't even think what a medic has to feel when he takes another mans leg away in order to save him. Yes, he knows he saves the mans life, but he also takes away such a valuable part of his body. Thinking how sick he felt just as he watched, he knows he would have fallen unconscious before he could saw through the bone.

Athos takes in the scene with concern and gratefulness. It hurts him to see his brother so exhausted and troubled, Aramis should never have had to this. But he is strong and will overcome this soon. Moreover the Captain is grateful that d'Artagnan is now by the medics side. Athos was never good with words or in comforting, he probably would have made things just worse. Moreover he couldn't just leave his place in the front row to comfort one of his brothers, so he was just even more thankful for d'Artagnan being there for Aramis. He will be a great Captain, Athos thinks.

He had thought about leaving the musketeers already for a while. He longs for a life without trouble and in peace, without the responsibilities a Captain has to carry. He just wants to be with Sylvie, traveling and living life to the fullest. D'Artagnan will be a better Captain anyways.

A feeling of nostalgia rises in Porthos as they finally ride through the gates of the garrison, which still looks exactly the same as four years ago. It feels as if he hasn't been here in decades and as if it was just yesterday that they left to fight in war, in the same moment. He grins, as he sees old Serge coming limped out of the kitchen as fast as he can. "You're back!" He shouts happily, taking in the look in front of him. Athos and d'Artagnan dismount and help Porthos getting off the wagon. Aramis jumps down from it in a swift motion, much more rested than a few days ago.

They're greeted with the familiar smell of Serge's soup, all smiling as they're finally able to relax as they sit on their usual table in the courtyard. The cook places plates and a big pot in front of them, smiling at the four men. "You were deeply missed," he winks at d'Artagnan as Constance comes out of their rooms. As she recognizes the familiar faces, she starts running, falling into her husbands arms. "You're alive," tears roll down her beautiful face, as she loosen her grip and takes a look at the man she loves so much. Glad to see no bandages or injuries, she kisses him deeply.

"I've missed you," d'Artagnan exclaims before kissing her again. He doesn't want to let go of her ever again.

"Seems as I need to get some more plates," Serge smiles and points at the gates before leaving again. The four musketeers turn around to see what he pointed at. Porthos jumps from his chair right in the moment he sees Elodie and a little girl by her side, regretting it immediately as dizziness overwhelms him. Aramis supports him as Porthos makes his way over to Elodie and Marie-Cessette. The big man hugs the woman tightly, before kneeling in front of the girl. "You've grown up so much," he says smiling. The girl looks at him with big blue eyes, eying the strange man. "You aren't that big as mama has always told." She earns a hearty laugh for that comment from the musketeer, who presses her to his chest then.

Sylvie comes into the garrison just a few minutes later, welcoming Athos with a long hug and a deep kiss. She frowns at the scar at the Captains cheek, which comes from an injurie in one of the first battles. "You couldn't just stay unharmed once, do you?" Athos laughs, pulling her in for another kiss.

Aramis watches his brothers with a tired smile on his lips, sitting down on the bench once again and taking a sip from the wine that Serge has brought. He feels a slight step in his chest, as he watches how Porthos hugs the little Marie-Cesette and how d'Artagnan and Athos are kissing their wives. No, he shouldn't grief now, Aramis tells himself. He's finally home and everything will be fine.

Soon, the musketeers and their women sit around the table sharing stories. They drink wine, laugh and love until it's late in the night and they separate to get to their rooms.

They're finally home.

 _I first thought about putting them into danger once again, an ambush or something at the journey to Paris, but it just didn't feel right as I wrote. I felt like they just deserved some peace, so I hope you like this chapter even though there wasn't another battle and more injuries involved._


End file.
